Fugue
by kurahan
Summary: It's something he refuses to let go because it defines who he is and what he has become. Post 1x22.


**Title**: Fugue.  
**Author**: Vaeran.  
**Pairing/Character**: A spoonful of Logan and a dash of everyone else. Logan/Veronica, Logan/Lilly (kinda-sorta).  
**Word Count**: 4,155.  
**Rating**: R for language.  
**Summary**: It's something he refuses to let go because it defines who he is and what he has become.  
**Spoilers**: Set after 1.22, but spoilers up to 2.01, just to be safe.  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

Originally posted on January 21, 2007 at veronicamarsfic on LiveJournal. Don't know why it took me so long to slap this sucker on FFN, but I hope you'll read and review all the same.

* * *

Logan likes pain. He likes it when a fist (Weevil's or Aaron's) grinds its way through his stomach, twisting delicate organs within and feeling the air _whoosh!_ out of his lungs, because he loves the feel of physical pain. Fighting isn't always about winning, though winning is nice; it's about feeling _real_, knowing that he's really there, and assuring that his existence isn't lost to the world. The numbness that overcomes him after a fistfight tells him that and he finds it more comforting than anything any professional therapist could offer. Logan likes pain because he's very familiar with it, having been closely acquainted with it since childhood, and he knows his way around it better than anyone, not that he would ever admit it.

More importantly, it distracts him from the things that hurt the most: want, warmth, words, feelings that go straight through flesh and bone and leave no bruises, no cuts, no scars, no evidence of having even been there. It makes them hard to pin down and they're just so elusive sometimes that he doesn't even know if they're real or imagined or fixed or momentary or _anything_, and if he didn't find pummeling another one of those rat bastards (and getting pummeled in return) as fun as he does, he figures he'd be doing the Duncan thing, popping pills like M&Ms for the emotional shutdown, as neatly and quietly and mechanical as a collapse could get.

"That's the third fight this week, Logan. There's only two weeks left before the summer holidays. Is there something that's bothering you? Someone in particular that you want to talk about maybe?"

Logan glances at the clock on the wall. It's 1:37 in the afternoon and he's sitting in a wooden chair twiddling his thumbs.

He has to give her some credit; she really does look like she wants to help him. But she's so naive, she doesn't know that words are unreliable, and that nothing speaks louder than the audible _snapcracklepop _of bone the moment his knuckles connect with someone's jaw. He's in no mood to bullshit so he gives her one of his practiced smiles. It hurts to smile because his head is pounding and his muscles are aching and sometimes he thinks his ears are ringing, but it's okay because he's there and he's real. Words don't say that. Words are an art in which he excels, and ironically, it makes them his greatest weapons and his weaknesses: they're good for lies which lead to deception which leads to rejection which leads to an entirely new definition of wrong.

"Everything is copacetic." Wink.

Ms. James sighs again.

* * *

Midnight finds Logan driving towards the Coronado Bridge with Jack Daniels in the back and a sterling silver hip flask hallmarked from the 19th century occupying the passenger seat. Sometimes he's teetering on the railing like a lost cause and other times he's just sitting on the ground with back leaning on the railing, contemplating somberly, but he can never remember the things that crossed his mind that night, things that weave themselves into unrecognizable cobwebs the next day.

Tonight he's sitting on the railing like a child with one leg on each side of the railing. In his right hand he holds the now empty flask and the fingers of his left hand are curled around the neck of a bottle, skin wrapped over knuckles tight and white. The cap of the flask is unscrewed; he's paid his respects to mother dearest (this is the only way she'd appreciate it, he thinks, the corners of his lips tilting upwards in a mirthless smile). He's prepared to forget everything again and wake up with only one thought in the morning. He only remembers Lilly, because Lilly has never failed to show.

Tonight she makes an early appearance. He's not even on his second round yet, but there she is, lounging lazily on the hood of his Xterra.

_God, Logan, look at you_, she says. It's hard to differentiate the sympathy in her voice from the disgust.

"Lilly..." He turns his head and smiles at her.

_Seriously, it's boring watching you fuck up all the time. Doesn't it get old?_ Lilly flips her hair over her shoulders and hops off the Xterra to sit behind him on the railing. She wraps her arms around his shoulders.

"Being a bitch gets old? You couldn't have realized that two years ago?" He waits for Lilly to laugh at him but all she does is smile sadly. It's almost a foreign expression on her face.

_If you hate it you could stop it, you know. There are like, a million ways to make it stop and well, no one's forcing you._

"You know me; I'm a crash and burn story just waiting to happen."

_Is that a confession?_

"No, it's a choice."

Lilly shakes her head. _It's no fun watching you mope all night long._

"You could poof like normal dead people do."

She tilts her head, resting it on his shoulder, blonde hair spilling onto Logan's chest, and her eyes look over the edge, down at the water below her dangling bare feet. Down, down, down, the water is seductively calm. _What do you want, Logan?_

Sex, drugs, and alcohol run through Logan's mind in quick succession and Lilly laughs.

_At least some things never change_, she says with a smirk, _but that's not the answer and you know it._

"So what're you offering?" he asks. Lilly combs her fingers through his hair and he holds himself still to keep from shivering.

_Well, there's the alternative, for starters._ He's taking a swig when she responds and he starts to laugh but then the liquid goes down the wrong pipe, and he's coughing and choking a bit. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand.

He feels that Lilly knows something and may be right about whatever she's not telling him because this Lilly is always right about Logan, and he doesn't know why. He figures it's one of the perks of being dead and imagined and unreal. She's whispering something in his ear now, like she does every night he's here, but he's not catching all of it and tomorrow morning he'll just forget it again because she's dead and imagined and unreal to begin with. All his senses are dulled at this point except for the one that feels the burning sensation of alcohol going down his throat.

"Logan? Logan, what are you doing?"

Logan doesn't get a chance to respond before he feels Veronica's hands on his upper arm, pulling him away from the ledge with a determination that belies her size. He's too tired to struggle against her and he swings a leg (and god it's heavy) across the railing. His feet hit solid concrete but his legs aren't cooperating and he's stumbling like one of those stupid, drunken fucks on the wrong side of town. He turns around and his eyes sting like a bitch as bright white pierces the back of his brain. He straightens himself and raises a hand to shield his eyes from the headlights of the LeBaron.

"Logan, are you crazy? What were you doing? Are you okay?"

He tries to ignore the worry in her voice.

Logan studies her face carefully, and then Lilly's whispers start to resonate in his skull.

He shakes his head. "My head hurts."

She tugs on his arm gently. "All right, let's get you home. I'll have someone get your car."

He tries to ignore the disappointment in her voice.

* * *

Logan rarely dreams anymore, and when he noticed this for the first time he told himself it's because his brain must be too fucking tired, what with having to provide daytime thoughts of dead slutty girlfriends, nonexistent best friends, negligent suicidal mothers, abusive homicidal fathers and treacherous new girlfriends, among other things.

_Consciousness is a pesky thing,_ Lilly had said.

Maybe it's his fault, because he just refuses to let go.

He first considers letting go of his mother, because she left him first anyway.

Duncan Kane would be the second to go for similar reasons; Duncan, who had been his best friend since kindergarten, who was always there for him except he was never really _there_.

But then he'd have to let Lilly go, and that was always hard. He can't quite recall who let who go first—some days he only remembers _my girlfriend fucked my father and then she was murdered_ and other days it'd be _my father fucked my girlfriend and then he murdered her_. It should be enough reason to forget Lilly but he still loves Lilly even though he hates her too. He just can't forget her, and her frequent appearances are proof of that.

Forgetting Veronica Mars is not impossible, but he just can't or won't because after Veronica Mars there's really nothing left for him to hold on to except himself, and that's a scary prospect. But there's a pattern in all of this, he realizes, a pattern of people coming and going but not without leaving their marks on him. First they shape him, then they break him.

_Come on, Logan, when're you gonna learn?_

* * *

"Dude, you better be grateful 'cause honestly, we weren't down on coming over, what with the Echolls name plastered all over TV. But you forced our hand." Dick shakes his head regretfully.

Logan stares. "Why are you here, Dick?"

"Oh. Well. You were all locked up here and stuff, so I thought, if you weren't gonna come for fun, then fun's gonna come for _you_." He motions towards Beaver, who is carrying a six-pack behind Dick. "So. Can we come in and get this party started?" He grins brainlessly and waves a handful of Playstation games in front of Logan's face.

Logan scratches the back of his head absently and lets go of his hold on the door. Beaver nods a hesitant greeting before entering, and Dick shuts the front door with his foot.

They play for ten minutes to Dick's personal sound effects.

"Dude, has it ever occurred to you that like, all this time, you were living in the same house, under the same roof as a killer?" Dick Casablancas has never been good with words.

Logan throws the controller on the floor and looks at Dick wryly. "Hm. You know, it just never dawned on me. Could you rewind a bit to the part with the sex, and the tapes, and what was next? The part where my father smashed my girlfriend's skull in with an ashtray, or the part where he locked my other girlfriend in a cooler and set it on fire?" His mouth twists into a wide, expectant smile.

Beaver shifts uncomfortably and Dick raises his hands in defense. "Whoa man, that's not what I meant."

"Oh, my mistake." The sarcasm in Logan's voice is almost palpable. "What did you mean to say, Dick?" He's still smiling and his voice is bitter and mocking, but the other boy doesn't seem to notice. Times like this Logan thinks he'll always be the butt of his own jokes because no one sticks around long enough to hear the punch line.

"Why stay here alone when you can stay at my place? I mean, we don't have an Aaron Echolls shrine for you to do your little housewarming campfires because my dad would go nuts—and he wasn't exactly a fan, but dude. Think it over." Dick's attention has migrated back to the TV screen. "It's summer, and it's time to start doing what guys like us like to do. You know. Mexico? Las chicas? The beach?"

One part of Logan wants to punch Dick fucking Casablancas into Mexico alone, but the other part shrugs and answers slowly, "Yeah, man, okay. I will."

Dick Casablancas has never been good with words, and for that Logan is grateful.

* * *

Logan finds the CD player in the drawer of the nightstand next to his bed, equips the ear pieces, and instinctively skips to the last track, putting it on repeat. He's lying down on his bed with his hands folded behind his head when his cell phone rings. He fishes it out from the pocket of his jeans and looks at the caller ID: the name Veronica Mars flashes back at him and he tosses the device away on the floor.

He's only slightly buzzed, but his mind feels hollow and numb. He feels a hand slide into his and turns his head sideways to see Lilly lying beside him on the bed. He can't help smiling slightly anymore than he can help shivering when she touches him.

_Hey there,_ she says.

"Hey yourself," he says.

_I haven't been here in a while, huh? Miss me?_

"Enjoying your conjugal visits?" He's smirking but his voice is absent of anger and blame.

Every time Lilly comes he's never asked her questions like why did you or how could you. Before he'd wanted to scream at her, but never when she's here, and maybe that's because subconsciously he realizes it doesn't matter anymore. It can't matter, because he can't raise the dead even if he wanted to (he never wanted to) and there's just nothing anyone could do about it except talk, and talking is a waste of time when all people do is spin lies upon lies upon more lies.

She laughs and then examines his room, as if trying to reminisce and register the changes. _You know, I almost forgot what your room looked like. Weird._

"Well, don't be too hard on yourself. When you were in here the lights would be off, it'd be nighttime, and we'd be occupied."

_Was it always this messy? Ugh._

"That depends. Do you mean before or after we did our business?"

_God, yes, I miss the sex too!_ She grins, propping herself up on her elbows. The room is silent again, and her expression is thoughtful when she looks him in the eye. _What would you do if I like, never come back at all?_

"You've never not come back, not even when you're dead," he points out.

_Oh come on, Logan! Be serious. I won't come back and you'll never get to see me or talk to me again and it'd suck. But what would you do?_

Lilly presses a hand to his forehead and her voice is quiet when she speaks again. _Would you come with me?_ Her smile is so seductive he can't tell if he's never stopped loving her or if he just sort of fell in love with her all over again even after having hated her.

_You realize I'm not in any state to help you there, Logan._

He takes a deep breath.

_You're so broken. What will you do without me?_

He doesn't know what he would do or what he could do, but the most tempting option now is to say fuck it, forget it, so he closes his eyes and tries to shut out the distant rumbling of his brittle existence crumbling, bit by bit, everyday.

She's smiling that sad smile as she leans closer to him, whispering those words, and in his mind they disintegrate into echoes, sounds, and then into ideas; ideas that form the only sensible fragment of his psyche, the one he repeatedly tries to blot out at each and every opportunity. He's tried drinks and drugs and angry music and mindless fucks, and he's even tried everything at once but he's never really succeeded.

Lilly's voice is haunting so he keeps increasing the volume of the CD player until electronica drowns Lilly out and then all he's aware of is the deep thundering bass of the song synchronized to the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

When the whole world descends on me  
I'll be the figure of your disgrace  
And damage is done

The next morning, Logan wakes up to Lilly's words again. The CD player sits still beside him. He hits play but nothing happens. The batteries are dead.

* * *

Logan pushes the doors to the Sac'n'Pac open, stuffs his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and heads straight for the aisle of refrigerated products when he hears an awkward "hey" from the cashier. It's a familiar-looking black dude with wary, warning eyes, the dude whose name Logan doesn't commit to memory because "Ronnie's Sidekick" does the job nicely.

Logan raises his chin in a casual greeting. Wallace's fingers drum the countertop as if he were nervous but he hasn't taken his eyes off of Logan yet, eyes that have a way of looking at Logan as a puzzle that could be solved merely by staring.

"You still work here?" asks Logan.

Wallace just nods, but his face reads, _That's a dumb question._

"Right," Logan mumbles disinterestedly, and his eyes go back to scan the store's colorful selection of drinks, snacks, and frozen pizza.

"So, no trouble this time 'round? 'Cause honestly I don't feel like sortin' through _Seventeen _and _Teen People_ again after the last time you swung by here."

Logan snorts. "The stench of the disposal bins is hard to forget, and as I remember, they're still outside."

"Well before it went outside, you guys were assgrabbin' by the doors and the magazine rack got busted," retorts Wallace. "Besides, what did he do to you anyway? Look at you funny?"

"I assure you I didn't give him anything he didn't deserve."

Wallace rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Another gesture of disapproval and Logan briefly wonders if Wallace learned it from Veronica. He gets a Frappuccino from the fridge and picks up a packet of AAA Duracell batteries from a nearby rack.

Wallace rings up the counter and Logan hands him a one hundred dollar bill. "Got any small change? It's kinda early in the day."

"That's funny; I was going to ask you the same question."

Wallace gives him another look, so Logan slides his Platinum card across the counter.

"You talk to Veronica lately?" Wallace's question catches Logan off guard.

He hesitates before answering. "Not really."

Wallace says nothing and hands Logan the drink and the batteries in a plastic bag. Logan crosses the empty parking lot in long strides and once back in the Xterra, he tosses the plastic bag in the backseat and jams the keys in the ignition. Instead of starting up, he stares at the steering wheel for minutes before he leans over and his right hand is groping around the floor underneath the passenger seat until it reaches a familiar shape. He scrolls through the list of missed calls, and topping the list is Veronica Mars. Her name appears three times.

He highlights her name and hits the send button.

* * *

Logan wishes he were in Tijuana with Dick and Beaver and some other 09ers right now, but instead he finds himself in the living room of his house with one Veronica Mars. They're skittish and they avoid looking at each other directly. He never expected an apology and he damn well doesn't want one so when she begins with a cracked and hollow "Logan I'm sorry" he interrupts her with a wave of his hand.

"Forget it. It doesn't matter anymore. You were just doing what you had to do," he says, and he tries to smile but god it fucking hurts so he just shrugs.

It stings her. She opens her mouth to say something, maybe to protest, but changes her mind and purses her lips instead. She stares at her hands, as if trying to think of a way to approach this from a different angle and Logan laughs inwardly. He finds himself welcoming the silence: no more skirting around with bullshit and semantics, better to leave it as it is and walk out, again.

"You're right," Veronica says quietly after a while, but when she looks him in the eye, her expression is unwavering, defiant. "I did what I thought was right. And it led me to Lilly's killer. But I also did some things that turned out to be wrong."

Logan looks up at her, questioning.

"So I came here to apologize and I'm not going to let you just brush it off like it's nothing. Just hear me out."

His head is starting to pound and now it aches to look at her so he concentrates on the marble floor instead.

"I'm sorry."

Shut up, he wants to say.

"For panicking and running off."

Shut your fucking mouth.

"Without talking to you beforehand. I'm sorry."

You're a lying bitch You're no different than everyone else I was wrong I've had enough.

"And I'm sorry I ever thought you could've been the one."

I don't need your fucking apology I don't want it Take it to someone who gives a shit.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry if this isn't enough to—to start things again."

Come on Logan when're you gonna learn.

"At least, I want things to be okay with us. And I understand if you don't... want to. Or," she swallows thickly, "or if you don't believe me. Just. Talk to me, or tell me how I can prove it to you. Because I don't want to lose you."

He's suffering a massive headache from what feels like the hangover of the century but he forces himself to look at her, to really look at her, and then something in his head clicks. Memories of the past few weeks make their way to the surface, memories of Lilly Dick Lilly Mexico Lilly Wallace, memories of booze and batteries, memories of waking up so many times to words he didn't believe meant anything real until now.

_Want warmth friendship freedom trust truth._

Any of them and all of them.

He looks at Veronica, standing here before him, biting her lip, offering more than just empty words, and he remembers why he chose to _keep going_, because really what else is there? Even Lilly knew and Lilly is dead. She'd only been trying to tell him from the beginning.

And what if Veronica doesn't hold the answer to everything, or anything? He knows she can't fix him because god knows neither of them could come close to being the poster child of healthy adolescence. He doesn't know where to begin but she's here to help, and maybe that's not so bad for a start with five years' worth of delay. It won't be easy and they can't dive into anything without running blindly into issues of trust and blame.

Late, for sure, but maybe not too late.

Veronica is looking at him and a cloud of doubt grows in her eyes. She's still waiting for an answer.

"Okay," he says at last, "okay."

Veronica releases a breath she'd been holding. "Okay," she agrees, with a relieved smile.

He feels her small hand on his wrist, tentative, and she squeezes a bit. He pulls his hand out of his pocket to hold her and when he squeezes back, she laughs a little, and it doesn't hurt when he smiles back. They sit on the sofa next to each other and they're not kissing or making out or anything but Logan feels warm in a way alcohol can't reproduce. They don't say much, and right now they don't need to. Normally it's a task on Logan's part but he finds it easier this way, like they're communicating between the lines or something.

"I should probably..." she signals with her thumb towards the front door. They walk out, hand in hand.

"Does your dad know you're here?" Here wasn't just any place when it was home of Aaron Echolls, A-list movie star who almost made flambe out of the Mars family.

"No. I'm supposed to be handing out resumes."

"And I'm supposed to be drunk in Mexico."

"And I wanted to see you while you were sober."

"You wanted to see me hung over."

Veronica rolls her eyes. "What kind of person gets a hangover in the afternoon?"

"I can be full of surprises." He opens the door of the LeBaron for her.

Veronica pauses before climbing in. "Call me."

"I will."

And then she's gone and he's alone again. The house is empty and quiet and it feels strangely unfamiliar. He shuffles back to his room and notices the CD player on the table. He puts on the ear pieces, skips to the last track, and puts it on repeat. The batteries have been replaced. The music kicks in but he doesn't catch the lyrics.

Words, Logan decides, are lines of a script and sometimes, a lot of times, they don't prove anything. Sometimes they prove everything, which make them a bit unreliable but he thinks he could live with that, for now.

* * *


End file.
